I pass him every morning.
He is blemishing street
corners;
A vagabond among the
pigeons
Like a rogue.
I pass him every morning,
Though I feel I shouldn't
have to
He is coming for me soon;
And he's a rogue.

He's blowing smoke into
mouths
Of little girls.
I ask him why
And he tells me quite
plainly,
Though his metal eyes seem
dead:
Lest they outlive him.
That's what he said.

-

He whispered gruff orders
with a hand on my knee
And said he'd get rid of
me if I didn't agree
To how long he'd keep me;
He would not guarentee.

-

And then when the world
crumbles
Under all his debris;
He'll still exist
everywhere
To a certain degree.
He has such a way of
twisting my plea.
So his ugly steel eyes
glint with sharp glee;
Another servant to his
collection-
Another two. Another
three.

He's a rogue.
A filthy rogue.

He is industry.

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